Under The Desk
by nymphetxamine
Summary: Steve gives Phil Coulson a handjob underneath his desk. Clint Barton very nearly catches them.


"Captain," Coulson warned, shifting uncomfortably against his leather desk seat, "you're playing a _very_ dangerous game." Phil's fingers proceed down, clasping about the wrist by his thigh, only to be shrugged off with the hollow sound of a chuckle that gladly tickled the shell of his ear. The Agent shuddered. Steve's nimble fingers are slow; too slow. It's taunting and Phil finds himself caught between a rock and a - quite literally - hard place.  
On one hand, they shouldn't be doing this here in his office, fumbling like schoolboys beneath the desk when Steve swears he'd only come to deliver the afternoon's coffee, because Phil's brow had been furrowed in the first sign of a stress-induced meltdown. On the other hand, Steve's thumb is - oh - Steve' thumb is rubbing tender circles beneath his gaze, further stimulating (for lack of better wording) the _raging hard-on _that Phil's ever so wonderfully sporting.

"Aren't I always playing a dangerous game? Saving the world and all." Responded Steve so casually that one would be forgiven for mistaking their conversation for a discussion on the oh-so-unpleasant New York weather. The Captain's calloused palm traced against the outline of his groin, and in response, Phil mouthed a lewd _"shit"_, tipping his head back to collide with the headrest.  
Steve quirks a brow. Coulson doesn't need to open his eyes to see the threads tugging a corner of his lips upwards in a lazy, lopsided grin, because he's seen that very look so many millions of times that it has slipped into his brain and laid a nest there, tucked comfortably against his subconscious.  
"Steve, we shouldn't- _God,"_ What had housed the potential to become a monologue was cancelled, taken by a sharp intake of breath as the tormentor located a spot of cold metal, tugging downwards to open the zipper, followed a soft _pop_ of the tight button holding his trousers together. Phil didn't try to continue, and for that, Steve was thankful.  
"You want this, right?"  
Phil's eyes opened, head lolling to the side incredulously. "What?"  
"I…" Steve coughed, averting his gaze momentarily. "You don't mind?"  
"No. No, I don't. Mind, I mean. I want you to-"  
"Good."

That's all the permission it took. Steve reached; thumb plucking the waistband of Phil's briefs, and the Agent took a moment to thank the Lord that the underneath of his desk was a _very_ dark place, lest the Captain notice his shield insignia upon their front. Relishing in the sharp snap as elastic meets skin, Steve unceremoniously reaches, fingers brushing at first, and then dryly curling around Phil's cock, moving languidly in a repetitive pump. Phil's lungs burn as he inhales suddenly, clenching a fist atop the computer mouse, and Steve's not sure whether it's from relief or pleasure or both but either way is just fine for him and he leans in to deliver a careful kiss to the man's earlobe, taking the opportunity to whisper "is this alright?"  
"Yes," said Phil, nodding definitely as the soldier's fingers tighten, his thumb rising to caress the slit, smearing pre-come haphazardly, a gossamer sheen across his head. "Oh, _God_ yes."  
And Steve speeds up his motions, relishing in the way Phil's fingers curl and uncurl as he unsuccessfully attempts to send an Email, the way his lips fall apart in a gentle O, his lust hazed eyes, the rise and fall of his heavy chest-

There's a knock at the door and their heads snap up in sync, Steve moving to embarrassedly pull back until Phil clasps his forearm to keep him in place in the chair he's pulled up beside Coulson's own.  
"Come in," calls the Agent. A slight creak in the door reveals Clint, brow quirked, eyes darting between the pair. Steve grins lopsidedly as Phil's grip loosens, giving a slow, experimental stroke to the heated muscle between his palm, shrugging helplessly.  
"Had to do something online for Fury and you know how useless I am with this new-fangled technology. Agent Coulson said he'd help me." The excuse, though immediate and sharp, was enough for Clint who propped himself in the doorway with a shoulder, oblivious to the reason Phil squirmed in his seat, unseeing the desperate touches, the careful dance of another hand's fingers against his balls.  
"Right. Anyway, I was just checking what time mission briefing was, Phil."  
"Eight fifty."  
"Thanks." Clint goes to leave, turning his back and pulling the handle shut when Coulson gasps out an uncontrolled curse. He turns, face painted with genuine concern and starts into the room.  
"No, no!" It's too urgent. "You go. Clicked the- wrong link, is all." Phil smiles, but Steve thinks it's more a grimace at the suspicious glance between them. Not suspicious enough, it seems, because Barton leaves and it's when his footsteps disappear down the corridor that Steve delivers a final, long stroke and Phil's head falls backwards, eyes clenching tightly shut, nails digging into the Captain's wrist and drawing specks of blood, a low groan escaping past his lips to ride out his release. Steve pulls a tissue from the desk and uses it to wipe the mess from the pair of them, leaning in to give Coulson a tender kiss on the jaw.

"That was such a terrible idea. He almost caught us." Breathed Phil, and Steve smiled dazedly.  
"Yeah. It wasn't my best."


End file.
